The Unforeseen
by readingbriars
Summary: It is several days after the fall of Lord Voldemort and everything is peaceful again. Harry Potter and Hogwarts is praised. Life... it's normal again. But unfortunately, not many good things come to last. An unexpected card is shown and a new source - seemingly, more followers of Lord Voldemort - come into play; along with a new Peverell descendant.


**A/N: OK, so this is my first fanfic. :P Yippee!...? XD**

**Disclaimer: All rights goes to the Harry Potter series written by JK Rowling.**

The room was dark, forbidding, cold; the time of day was indeterminable. In the middle of the room, a faint and dim light from a little candle lit up a small area of the table on which it stood on. A dark and heavily booted foot rested casually on the table's edge; its owner seeming to relax in some sort of chair.

Out of view from the candle's meager light, one could just barely see figures lurking about in the corners of the room - wearing what appeared to be dark cloaks. Other than that, nothing else could be seen in the shady and mysterious room.

Suddenly, a voice steeped in authority broke the silence.

"Artemis," a deeply calm, and young voice spoke. The man was clearly displeased. "Your failure has embarrassed me to the point where digging a hole and dying doesn't seem like such a bad idea."

"I apologize, sir!" a raspy voice replied hastily. Just then, a hunched figure scurried into the candle's lighted range, taking a standing position at the head of the table; a cowl covered his shadowed face. "Please," the hunch-back continued, worry leaking into his voice. "Allow me one more chance, sir, _please! _I swear to you, I won't fail –"

The deep voice laughed with genuine amusement. The single, booted foot on the table was joined by another; the image of an unconcerned person. The hunched figure quivered with fear, awaiting his verdict in dead silence. Moments passed, and nothing was said or heard.

All of a sudden, the mysterious, booted man laughed – it was a laugh without mercy, a laugh filled with hilarity and evil leisure.

"Kill him," said the deep, authoritative voice. A booted foot slid slowly off the table.

The order was heard. In the barely-visible shadows, one of the dark figures in the far right corner stopped their pacing. The figure – a man – sighed, sounding bored. "I was expecting this," he whispered indifferently. "Farewell, Artemis."

And the figure raised an arm, the candle's light revealing pale arms and hands, his fingers wrapped around what seemed to be a silver stick – it was something that looked close to a wand –

"No!" the hunched figure screeched, panicked. He turned his direction to the booted foot on the table, visibly trembling. "_No! _Sir, please!_" _he begged. "I'll redeem myself, I swear! Sir, let me live – _please – !_"

The remaining booted foot repositioned itself more comfortably. "Die."

As if right on cue, the bored man's voice permeated the air. "Avada Kedavra!" he shouted.

The room filled with a brief flash of bright green light.

Suddenly, the hunched-back man toppled out of a sight. The contact of his limp body on the floor made a loud thudding noise. Immediately, two different cloaked figures entered the candle's light. They bended over, dragging the motionless body quickly away from the table - out of view from the candle's light.

A sharp 'crack!' was heard then, and silence ensued.

The candle light flickered, its orange and yellow hues burned solemnly in the room's darkness. Just out of the candle's range, six cloaked figures circled around the table. Their movements were rigid – all except for the bored man. He stood at the front of the table now, in the exact same spot where the hunchback had been. He too, wore a cowl and cloak; his features could not be distinguished.

The booted foot shifted slightly, almost as if its comfortable position couldn't be recovered.

"Sir," the bored man spoke. The silence was broken, and the other cloaked figures turned their hooded heads toward the man at the front of the table.

"Yes?" the deep voice inquired. The booted foot was still now.

"Sir." The bored man still indeed sounded bored, as if everything that had happened had not affected him. "I was wondering," he said, "with Artemis failing his mission, what are we supposed to do now?"

Hushed voices murmured around the room, the first rush of activity. The bored man did not make a single move. He kept his focus trained on the booted foot on the table.

"Silence," the deep voice whispered, a hint of warning in his voice. The room speedily lapsed into dead quiet.

"Sir," the bored man said. His voice was devoid of emotion.

The cloaked figures around the table bustled about nervously – no doubt, they feared the response of the mysterious booted man: their _master. _They knew that the master did not tolerate rude wizards – especially ones like the bored man.

But their worries were quickly dismissed as the master unexpectedly laughed – a bright chiming noise of joy.

"Well," the deep voice said. "You've always been my favorite, Ambrose. You're very direct."

The bored man – Ambrose – inclined his head without a word. The mysterious master chuckled.

"Artemis." His voice was slow and thoughtful. "He failed me. Death is what happens when you fail me. The Dark Lord has passed – unfortunately. His aid after he'd kill the Potter boy would have helped our cause."

"We're not the Dark Lord's lackeys," Ambrose said blandly. "We don't need his help."

"He inflicted fear," the master whispered, his voice almost a sigh. "With his role, we would have gotten what we wanted in within two days, guaranteed. This is something that can not be done without the Dark Lord."

"But Lord Voldemort's dead," Ambrose retorted. There was a quick intake of breath at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. "The Potter boy went and done him in," he continued, "so what will we do now?"

A sudden stillness commenced. Not a single breath could be heard as a hush filled every space of the room.

After several minutes of thick air, the master's deep voice spoke. "We'll improvise."

"How?" Ambrose pressed on, his voice naked of any tone. "Artemis failed to retrieve Artifact One – "

"– we'll continue where Artemis left off," the master cut in, casually. "I've been thinking about it and I've made my decision. I'll dispatch Hortence and his boys tomorrow at dusk – _they _will find Artifact One without fail."

"What's 'Artifact One'?" a new, curious voice asked. Again, nervous inhales from the other cloaked figures were heard.

The booted foot shifted to the left slightly. "Classified," the deep voice answered.

"I want to help the cause," the new voice said. It was a young lady – her bouncy, high pitched voice sounded like she couldn't be any older than eighteen. "Sir, I'm new. You should at least inform me about what we're trying to catch."

There was a smile in the master's voice. "I see," he said, meaningfully. "Chastity, is it?"

A small, cloaked figure nearby nodded its head curtly. "Yes, sir."

"Very well," the master replied, and the rest of the cloaked figures breathed ably again. "Artifact One. Let's see... where shall I start..."

"The Peverell brothers," Ambrose grunted.

"Oh, yes." The master laughed a little.

"But that's a child's story," Chastity, the young lady said, disbelieving.

"No, it is not," the master responded, patiently. "The great Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord himself, proved this. Both the Potter boy and our Lord are descendants of the Peverell brothers, from the 'story' that you all knew as a child." The booted foot was joined by the other foot again, resting easily on the tabletop. "As you can see," the deep voiced master continued, "these two – Harry and the Dark Lord – they have been proven to be _quite_ the descendants."

All around the table, the cloaked figures nodded their heads. It was true of course – the fearsome Dark Lord and the infamous Harry Potter. Both would go down in history to be one of the best pairs of wizards the wizarding world will ever see.

"There are hints that another Peverell descendant exists," the master continued, snapping to the point. "This descendant, whom we titled 'Artifact One'... he has a big role in our plans."

"No way," Chastity breathed in awe.

Ambrose and the other cloaked figures did not react. After all, they had heard of this already.

"The descendant carries the wish of Cadmus Peverell," the master murmured, his voice soft. "This descendant – we _need _him if we want to take on the Ministry of Magic, especially when they are in the process of reforming. Now is the perfect time to strike."

"How do you know that?" The small hooded figure of Chastity quickly held up her hands. "I don't question your source, sir," she said hurriedly, "but I just want to know. How do you know that the descendant has 'the wish of Cadmus'–?"

"Rumors," Ambrose answered, still very bored with the goings-on. "Animal-like zombies focused centrally on New York, in the United States. The baby that drowned in the river – coming back to zombie-like life after a witness watched a young boy touch the body – "

"Muggle news." The master chortled with derision. "Very useful at times."

"But - " Chastity continued, just as Ambrose warily held up his hand.

"Master believes," Ambrose said, very forcefully, "that this unrecorded descendant of Cadmus Peverell has a special ability – an ability that we can use. Now stop your flood of questions and take some time to absorb this new information."

The small hooded figure fidgeted silently, apparently very embarrassed. The master laughed and suddenly, a slender hand appeared from within the darkness, right into the candle's light. Its tanned fingers drummed lightly on the surface of the wooden table, as if marking the seconds that ticked by in the dark room.

"We have a good idea where the descendant – Artifact One – resides now." The master's voice was a low whisper of anticipation. "Hortence and his men will find and capture our prized child."

"That's fantastic," Ambrose said, uninterested. He untied the cowl from around his face – allowing a stern jawline and full lips to show. The darkness hid the rest of his facial features from view. "But what will _I _do, until then?"

"Always looking for fun," the master noted, a wicked smile in his voice. "I'll save the job that requires the most activity for you." Then, the mysterious man raised his volume, addressing the entire room at large. "What we'll do," the deep voice said, "is wait. When Hortence retrieves our little descendant, we'll leave this little hide-out to _elsewhere. _Right now, I'd like to address a slight problem with retrieving the child."

The dark room's occupants did not move. Everything was silent, and the atmosphere held an air of attentiveness.

"The descendant is being protected by someone powerful." The slender fingers ceased its tapping. "When Hortence leaves, Gideon and his men will follow them as reinforcements."

A hooded figure to Ambrose's right nodded resolutely.

"All in good order then." The master laughed briefly. "This little meeting is done. You are all dismissed. But I'll leave you all on this note – yes, even those of you without a mission."

There was a slight pause and the room took on a feeling of apprehension. Everything was still and noiseless – until the master sleepily yawned.

"Retrieve the descendant successfully," he said, groggily. "Or die."

A chill rose around the room. As if for effect, an unnatural, high-pitched laugh pierced the air.

"Stop that, Orpha," the master's voice ordered, struggling to be heard over the shrill laughing. "Would you like to die _now_? Is that it?"

The high-pitched laughter stopped immediately.

Just then, the candle's familiar, dim light went out and the room was plunged into absolute darkness.

"Remember our mission," the deep voice – the mysterious master – murmured. "We will not fail. Capture Artifact One, and we'll have our victory."

An explosion of sharp cracks reverberated around the room. The cloaked inhabitants had dispersed.


End file.
